


Dark Days

by angelblack3



Series: We're All A Little Mad Here [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bondage, M/M, Painplay, Sounding, Watersports
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-23
Updated: 2015-12-06
Packaged: 2018-03-03 00:39:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2831828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelblack3/pseuds/angelblack3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An anthology of the dark points in John's life as Sherlock's prisoner and lover.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Watersports

**Author's Note:**

> Or, as I personally call it, the porn that I'm unable to fit into the main stories. 
> 
> Apologies to those of you that are anxious for the continuation of Nice Night Out, I promise that one's next. For now, enjoy the dark porn that I now have the excuse to write without a backstory to clog me down. 
> 
> This first chapter I dedicate to johnnybooboo aka Deni. A lovely and talented human being that is probably one of the biggest fans of this series <3\. Watersports is her thing more than mine and I aim to please. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy even if you don't get all hot and bothered for this particular kink. Happy Holidays everyone!
> 
> P.S. Tags will be updated as this thing gets more and more chapters. If you have a particular dark kink you'd like to see them do, put it in the comments (no guarantees tho as I have enough plot bunnies already without you bright and beautiful gems adding to the mix <3).

It’s when Sherlock is refilling John’s glass with water for a third time that suspicion finally takes root. So far, John’s entire afternoon had been uneventful, which usually meant that it was promising to be a rare ‘good’ day. But now, as the sun is setting into the golden glow of evening, John can feel dread creep its millipede legs up his back. 

Sherlock holds the glass out expectantly, and John slowly takes it from him. John briefly entertains the idea of refusing to drink it until Sherlock explains himself, but that impudence would only lead to more punishment. And John wants wherever this is leading to be finished as soon as possible. 

Sherlock’s clearly caught on to John’s realization, as he stares unabashedly as John gulps down the water. When John takes a moment to breathe, Sherlock is pushing the glass back up to his lips insistently. John only complains by rolling his eyes before obediently swallowing the rest. 

When he sets it back down on the table, John can feel the water sloshing around in his stomach. His belly is slightly distended from their dinner and the fluid, but he’s far from uncomfortable. John waits for Sherlock to refill the glass again, for whatever mad purpose he’s come up with it. But Sherlock doesn’t move from leaning against the table. 

John idly drums his fingers, wondering if he’s supposed to be doing something else. Most of the time, when these ‘games’ occur, John knows what’s about to happen. Either it’s because he’s bargained himself in accordance with their mad relationship rules, or because Sherlock likes to see the trepidation in John’s eyes before they begin. 

But this time Sherlock is clearly waiting for something, and John’s not sure what. He hopes that he’s not _supposed_ to know what is going on, as his slow arrival to the conclusion will make Sherlock irritated. John looks up at Sherlock’s eyes to be sure that he’s not growing annoyed, but the man’s face is an eerie mask of patient anticipation. He’s not waiting for John to catch up, he’s waiting for…something else. It should bother John that he hasn’t figured out what Sherlock seeks to gain from this weird stand-off but he can’t be asked to care. 

John pushes back his chair, wanting to watch crap telly to take his mind off of whatever’s coming tonight. This is when Sherlock moves. 

As John was half crouched out of his seat, Sherlock tackled him to the floor. The impact was so sudden that John reacts instinctively by driving an elbow into Sherlock’s sternum. He felt Sherlock’s expelled breath spread across the back of his neck, and John froze in terrible fear. This was all of the hesitation Sherlock needed.

Before John can even think about scrambling away Sherlock forces one of John’s arms back into an effective lock, pinning the shorter man to the floor. John cries out in surprised pain, but he remains still. John’s not sure if the blow to Sherlock’s chest is something that he will be paying for later, and he doesn’t want to add to his offenses. 

John has pleas and platitudes curling up on his tongue, but the sound of locking metal cuffs interrupt him. Sherlock’s heavy weight leaves his back, and John tries to get his arms underneath him. The metal rings digging into his wrists confirm what he already knows.

“Oh you have got to be-“ Sherlock’s hands slide underneath John’s armpits, hauling him up before John can finish his sentence. John quickly gets his feet underneath him, to make sure Sherlock doesn’t ‘accidentally’ drop him and dislocate his shoulder. He’s learned that lesson already.

John obeys Sherlock’s eager and directional shoves toward their bedroom, but he doesn’t stop from complaining. 

“Handcuffs, really? I thought we both preferred the leather. These things are fucking painful, Sherlock!”

But Sherlock just pushes him onto the bed without a word. John falls forward onto his stomach and bounces slightly as the air is knocked out of him. He lies there for a few seconds, to be sure that he’s not going to be manhandled back into this position if he moves. Sherlock just stands behind him silently, so John shimmies himself farther onto the bed and turns onto his back. 

It’s slightly more uncomfortable like this, with his shoulders arched and his hands pinned underneath him, but at least this way John can see what Sherlock is doing. Unless a blindfold is about to enter the picture, in which case John hopes he can turn back over without reprimand for being ‘fidgety’. 

Any thoughts of repositioning are quickly removed when Sherlock climbs on top of the bed and straddles John’s legs. He immediately gets to work on John’s trousers, flicking the button loose with his long fingers. John squawks indignantly when the zipper is yanked down so fast it nearly catches his dick. 

“Christ, Sherlock! A little patience wouldn’t—“ John is cut off from a hard slap to his face. John slowly turns his head back, fear and anger simmering equally in his blood. 

Sherlock isn’t glaring or sneering at him. He’s just staring at John with his hand still slightly raised. The expression on Sherlock’s tells John all he needs to know. It’s something that he’s been told countless times before. 

Remember your place.

The blooming sting on his cheek doesn’t hurt nearly as much as the stab to his pride. John’s nostrils flare as he breathes deeply, and he curtly nods his head once. 

Sherlock starts to pull John’s jeans down, and John lifts his hips to help him. Next comes his underwear, and then Sherlock is unbuttoning John’s shirt. John doesn’t wear pullovers anymore, as they tend to end up in shreds from Sherlock’s impatience. Or maybe it’s that Sherlock prefers to see him gradually exposed, like unwrapping a present.

Sherlock’s thumb flicks over John’s nipple, bringing him back to the present. Sherlock smirks at John’s gasp, and moves down towards the ankle restraints at the foot of the bed. John shifts around a little bit to get his opened shirt bunched underneath his back, so his pinned arms won’t be dreadfully pinched whenever this is over. 

By the time Sherlock is done securing his feet, John has semi succeeded in making some additional support. He tugs his feet a little bit, just because he knows that Sherlock likes watching him test his restraints. The chains jangle and their slack tightens, but as always, they hold firm. 

John looks at Sherlock, who has pulled up an ottoman to perch atop of as he flicks his gaze over John’s mostly naked body. 

John’s heart thrums, just like it always does when those piercing eyes are taking him apart piece by piece. John shifts on the bed, waiting for the next step in these proceedings. But nothing happens for a short while. 

In fact, John’s shoulders begin to hurt quite distractingly after ten minutes of relative silence. John shifts around, which seems to be allowed, until his back is propped against the headboard. It’s still not ideal, but at least he can feel the blood running back into his hands. 

Another batch of time goes by, and John is beginning to feel…rather bored really. He doesn’t see why they couldn’t have done this while John was watching television. If the experiment of the day is to see if John cracks under boredom, then he’s not sure if Sherlock will be pleased or disappointed. 

John’s about to ask whether or not this is going anywhere, even if it will probably only land him another slap, before Sherlock crawls atop the bed. Reaching to the bed side table, Sherlock squirts some lubricant onto his fingers from the large container.

John had been embarrassed about the sheer bulk, initially. But who’s going to come into their room? And John’s dealt with Sherlock’s impatience enough times that he always carries a small packet of lube with him anyway. 

John gasps out in surprise when Sherlock takes his limp cock in a slicked hand, and begins to tease the skin around the glans. John’s cock begins to plump between Sherlock’s fingers. The pink skin tightens bit by bit until John is half hard and squirming. John’s restraints hold steady, as they always do, but John’s not sure how loud he’s supposed to be tonight, so shifting will have to do.

The slick sounds of Sherlock’s hand and John’s breathy moans hang in a thick miasma over the bed. Sherlock still remains quiet, apparently content to watch John react to even the slightest of touches. John would be disconcerted by the silence, but this isn’t even the top five of ‘creepiest things Sherlock has ever done’. So he just concentrates on the pleasure, knowing that it’s quite possibly a limited offer tonight. 

And sure enough, just when John feels like he’s cresting into an orgasm, Sherlock takes his hand away. John doesn’t even groan in protest. But he does release a breath of frustration while his head falls back against the wall. John moves his fingers to test their mobility, and everything seems to be working fine. But if he’s pulled back down to rest his weight on his arms; John gives it less than an hour before he’ll have to remind Sherlock about circulation. 

This relies on the hope that Sherlock will even care enough to turn him over. John ignores that train of thought as much as he can. He hasn’t survived this long on ominous speculation. No use worrying about what might come if he can’t truly predict what Sherlock will do next. 

So John focuses on the present instead. Things like his outstretched ankles, his shoulders that are insistently protesting the arched position, the tingly heat in his groin from a denied release and an aching buzz in his bladder.  
It’s the last thought that freezes him so completely he can feel the chill across his skin. Sherlock’s insistence with the water glass comes crashing back to him, and John can feel his heart start to speed while the rest of him remains carefully still.

Apparently John’s understanding is a cue for Sherlock, because the man leans forward and kisses him. As if John’s realization of his helplessness and his fear of profound shame is erotic. John kisses back anyway, because there’s really nothing else he can do. 

Sherlock’s lips warm under John’s gasp when he starts stroking John’s cock again. It had flagged perceivably under John’s knowledge, and it takes a bit more effort on Sherlock’s part to get it hard again. 

Wildly, John thinks about voicing how much he does not want this to happen. He can already feel the shame coiling like ashen snakes through his veins. He thinks about how long someone can perceivably hold their bladder before something damaging happens. And then factors in the other issues of a full bladder and a forced erection. 

It cracks John’s resolve enough that he brokenly murmurs a “Don’t” before sealing his lips against the rest of his pleas. 

Sherlock looks at him sharply enough that John braces himself for another hit. Instead, Sherlock rises from his seat beside John and leaves the room. John can hear the usual noises of Sherlock fumbling around in the kitchen. It gives him enough time to come up with a few dozen worst case scenarios of what Sherlock is searching for.

When Sherlock shuts the bedroom door behind himself, John jumps a little in his restraints. His eyes search for whatever new ‘toy’ Sherlock’s decided to bring and it’s…another glass of water.

It would be anticlimactic if it wasn’t being pressed to John’s lips. There’s a desperate whimper lodged in his throat somewhere, but he swallows it down along with the cool liquid. He can feel it settle in his stomach, and the sensation only heightens the tight and hot prickling along his skin.

John knows it’s not an accident when the glass is tipped forward too fast and John ends up spluttering water and spit down his chin and his chest. The rivulets tickle along his sternum and under his armpits, and John’s starting to think that no matter what he does, every action is just going to make the growing heaviness in his bladder worse. 

Sherlock grips the back of John’s head instead of taking the glass away, making sure that most of it finds its way down his throat. John gasps for breath when Sherlock lets go. John could swear that the heaving of his chest makes the water inside of him slosh around. 

John remembers the hallucinations. He remembers feeling adrift and forever tumbling through a vast expanse. He remembers the imaginary thrashing of waves against his tiny cage. He remembers being helpless to the demands of his body. 

John’s trying to decide if those memories are preferable, compared to what he’s feeling now. The cold water down his chest means that his erection has softened again. John knows that this evening is only just beginning, so he doesn’t even bother pretending that Sherlock will be merciful. 

But instead of lubing up his hand again, Sherlock leans down and takes John’s soft prick into his mouth. It’s enough of a shock that John kicks out one of his legs in reflex; with the sound of the chain overpowering Sherlock’s wet licking sounds. 

John tries his best not to move his arms or even clench his fists as Sherlock gently coaxes his dick back into hardness. John can already feel the slow burn in his shoulders begin to deepen, which makes the soft pleasure of Sherlock’s tongue headier. Sherlock gently sucks at the hardening flesh, grazing his teeth along the underside. Enough to make John squirm, but not enough to cause him pain. 

John finds that the tightening in his pelvis could belong to the weight of his growing bladder or the suction of Sherlock’s mouth. His breathing shortens with every swipe of Sherlock’s tongue. John grinds his teeth and digs his heels into the mattress when Sherlock repeatedly dips his tongue into the slit. The sensation is ticklish, and makes his stomach throb with urgency. 

Sherlock removes his lips with a soft pop, leaning back to admire the way John is flushed in equal parts of arousal and shame. One hand continues to stroke the shaft, while the other fondles John’s scrotum, caressing the lightly fuzzed skin. 

John thrusts his hips up, and he’s not sure if it’s meant to encourage Sherlock’s pumping or to try and get away. Sherlock moves his hand a little faster, firmly pressing his thumb against the outline of John’s vein. 

John strangles a groan with little success. As John’s eyes squeeze shut and his hips start to jerk, Sherlock pulls away both of his hands. 

“Fuck!” John shouts, his hips thrusting in the air, seeking out the glorious friction of five seconds ago. He folds forward, out of breath and aching. 

Sherlock pushes him back to sitting by sliding his hands up John’s chest. John assumes that Sherlock is going to torment his nipples, but his hands slide to the side and begin to tickle his ribcage. John yelps, squirming and giggling, unable to care that he’s twisting his shoulders further. His ankles jerk of their own accord, tugging in a fruitless attempt to get away. 

When John’s eyes aren’t squeezed shut, he can briefly see Sherlock’s pleased smile. John wriggles his torso as wildly as a landed fish, but Sherlock’s deft fingers follow wherever he goes. Finally, when John can’t gather a single breath, Sherlock stops. 

And suddenly John can feel the fullness in his bladder like a weight pressed on top of his stomach. John shivers in his amplified need to relieve himself. 

John catches a sharper smile cross Sherlock’s mouth before he’s being tormented with fleeting touches across his stomach and ribs all over again. John quickly discovers that helplessly laughing while feeling disgusted is a very strange sensation. And it’s emphasized when Sherlock begins to stroke him with one hand while continuing to tickle him with the other. 

John’s not quite sure if the sounds he’s making are from pleasure or from laughter, but they both make him breathy and cause him to fruitlessly shift and squirm. Sherlock tilts his head thoughtfully, looking at John slowly coming undone under his hands. 

Shifting to get comfortable, Sherlock leans down to lick a long stripe from the base of John’s dick to the very tip. The result is John shouting for a brief moment before it’s cut into a moan. Sherlock laps at the head, keeping one hand on the shaft so he can gently move the skin up and down. He tastes the precome as it beads, cataloguing the nuances of the different taste before storing the description in his mind palace. 

While John is struggling to find some semblance of stability, he wildly thinks that he can somehow still handle this. That the warmth of Sherlock’s tongue won’t drive him to madness, and that he can ignore the heaviness in his balls and his bladder if he simply tries hard enough. Maybe he can withstand the agony of denied release in both areas, and hold on until Sherlock is either satisfied or bored. But then Sherlock’s lips slide down his shaft and the sudden sucking makes John thrash and sob brokenly.

The dual urge to come and urinate throws haywire signals to his brain and body. He’s not entirely sure which one should happen first, just that they’re equally demanding his attention with molten urgency. John’s cock throbs so hard from denial it’s like he’s been shocked. 

His precome steadily rises from his prick, deepening his desperation like a sinkhole. If Sherlock would just let him finish in some way then he might be able to function or participate or something, anything, just to make this ungodly pressure _stop_.

Sherlock has no qualms about being a bastard, and the entire point of tonight is to make John break into lovely pieces. So he presses his palm down on John’s stomach at the exact time that he relaxes his throat and nearly reaches the base before his gag reflex overcomes him. 

John makes a broken sound akin to being murdered without being able to scream. Sherlock’s other hand is on his hip, which prevents him from bucking and choking Sherlock. Meaning that he’s left to endure feeling like something will rupture. And a treacherous part of his brain digs its heels into this clambering torture, begging for more. 

For while his skin feels taught enough to split, it’s tingling with electrical oversensitivity. His desperation feeds into his need until the two become inextricably linked, until John can’t tell the difference between shame and want. 

It’s when Sherlock starts alternating between pressing down his hand and humming around John’s prick that his control cracks. 

“Stop! Sherlock, please! Just stop!” John is half out of his mind with longing, but he still possesses enough sense to guess Sherlock’s response. When it comes this far, the point of begging turns paltry anyway.

Sherlock removes his lips from John’s prick and predictably answers, “No.” He circles his palm around the glans while his fingers brush John’s sensitive bellybutton. 

As John continues to squirm and whimper, Sherlock speaks steadily, “This isn’t an experiment in your endurance John. Think of it as more of a reminder. I enjoy pushing your limits, and you have no choice but to accept it. This is all about watching you break, simply because I _can_.” 

John suddenly realizes that these are the first words Sherlock has spoken since he first handed him a glass of water.

Sherlock moves up long enough to pull John down until he’s flat on his back again. The weight of gravity against his insides has John clenching his fists, holding back any sounds that might escape his lips. A hand suddenly slides down to the crack of his arse, while Sherlock goes back to rubbing and stroking his member. 

Sherlock’s hands are still slick from lube and John’s precome, and his body has been acclimated enough that Sherlock’s first two fingers slide in with little trouble. John whimpers, biting his lip to keep further sounds from escaping, although he’s beginning to accept that he is swiftly becoming a stranger to dignity. 

His self control shreds itself to tatters when Sherlock rubs his long fingers over John’s prostate. There’s barely any pressure, and it still feels like he’s going to burst from the inside. His cock throbs in renewed urgency, twitching so hard that John can feel it smack under his belly. 

Sherlock continues to rub and press in small measures, just so he can watch the desperate tears fall down John’s cheeks. Even when Sherlock stops stimulating the gland, it doesn’t help. The fingers slowly scissoring his arsehole continue to color every sensation in sharp white. John has to remember how to breathe when a third finger is added. 

Sherlock softly rolls John’s balls in his palm, enjoying their palpable heaviness. He’s very aware that the testes only contain one liquid, and the bladder another, but he briefly indulges in the fantasy that he can feel both sloshing around underneath the fuzzy skin. 

Sherlock presses against John’s prostate with three fingers, just to test the difference. The man chokes and shivers in a way that almost completely matches despair. And the sight of such unhinged distress coils through Sherlock’s loins as effectively as any debauched moan. 

Sherlock quickly unbuckles one foot so that he can pull the leg up and to the side. He gathers a bit more lube onto his fingers, and quickly slicks himself. Lining up to John’s entrance is the most satisfying muscle memory, and Sherlock slides in like he’s made to fit there. But it’s far more accurate and gratifying to say that he’s carved a space for himself into John’s body. The schematics of his ownership fly away when he feels John clench around his cock.

Sherlock can subtly feel John’s swollen bladder press against him, and the sensation is dizzying. John feels tighter and warmer somehow, and Sherlock places it on the degradation evident in John’s flushed face and twisting body. 

John can barely breathe. He feels like his head is submerged underwater while the rest of him is held aloft with needles of torment. He knows that he’s babbling something, but he’s not certain how to stop. 

Sherlock starts to move, and suddenly words are too much of an effort. John just groans and writhes instead. Sweat causes his hair to stick to his forehead, and runs down in infuriating rivulets down his back and his sides. He’s making primal noises in the back of his throat, too far gone to remember what it is that he needs. 

Sherlock shakes above him, overcome by John’s helplessness and his desperation. It’s such an intoxicating combination, and one that he savors like a sommelier with a rare wine. John’s cock flops against his belly, and when Sherlock manages to thrust against John’s prostate, it dribbles a little more liquid onto John’s stomach. 

Sherlock covers the prick with his hand, gently rubbing his thumb over the leaking head. John shouts, bucking for more or to get away from further stimulation. Sherlock continues to do it, watching the way John’s neck arches or how crumpled his face becomes. 

“What do you want John?” Sherlock asks, breathless and genuinely curious. He doesn’t know which need is taking precedence inside of John right now, and he finds the mystery beautiful. It’s not the baseness that’s so fascinating, but that it’s John, stoic and reserved John, who is now reduced to a quivering and needy mess is what’s so spectacular. 

“I-I don’t-“the effort to form words is beyond John right now. He’s not even sure what he would prefer at this point, just that something needs to be released or else he shall surely die. 

“You have to say it,” Sherlock insists, rolling his hips and watching as his cock slides in and out of John’s body. 

John’s arms have become numb from laying on them for so long, sending pinpricks of pain whenever he shifts. He’s not sure if his hands can even form fists anymore, but he imagines gripping onto his own skin to prevent himself from flying to pieces. The thought of reminding Sherlock about his circulation slides across his mind like water over a smoothed stone. 

“Fuck,” John brokenly cries as Sherlock’s cock slides deeper inside of him, “fuck I don’t know Sherlock I don’t know just end it, please.”

Warm adoration spreads through Sherlock’s chest at the sight of John’s mindless blabbering. It takes a great deal to break John down to this stage, and it’s always a marvel when Sherlock manages it.   
Sherlock leans in, a gentle smile on his face as he makes soothing sounds, “Shhh, it’s okay John. I’ll make it better for you.”

With those words he stokes steadily along John’s darkened prick, even while John bucks and shouts. Every brush of Sherlock’s dick against his prostate is like being punched from the inside. The slick sound of Sherlock’s hand on his dick intensifies the mounting pressure inside of him. 

Everything has devolved into pure sensation, and it’s hard to tell if it’s anguish or bliss that pulls the sounds from John’s throat. John feels a large hand on his sweaty cheek, and opens his eyes to see Sherlock staring at him with all of the searing intensity of a desert sun. And the look, for whatever reason, is enough to finally push John over that agonizing edge.

John’s neck arches back as he groans in relief, his cock spurting his come in thick white lines over his belly and leaking onto Sherlock’s hand. While his body trembles in a cresting orgasm, John can’t feel the euphoria that comes from release. Instead panic quickly overtakes his mind when he senses the ebb of a much stronger impulse grab his body. 

John jerks away strongly, blind fear making him fight where ingrained instincts would have told him to lie still. But his leg just jerks against the restraints and his other twitches uselessly in Sherlock’s grip. He can’t even feel his arms anymore but he mindlessly rolls his shoulders to try and push himself up and away. The instinct to flee and prevent this mortification is too great for rationality, but Sherlock just uses his weight to pin John in place. His thrusts pick up in speed and his breath comes out in ragged pants.

But Sherlock still doesn’t come. He clings to the last thread of restraint until he sees John’s eyes widen in paralyzing fear before they squeeze shut as the last of his control slips away and his body’s impulses take over.   
Sherlock greedily soaks in how John’s flush of shame is darker than his tones of arousal, how John’s insides turn warmer, and how lax his body becomes when John fully accepts that he can’t stop what Sherlock has set in motion. 

Sherlock pulls his hand away from John’s oversensitive prick, and the gush of warm liquid quickly soaks the bed. The fact that John’s only had water to drink means that the smell isn’t overpowering, and the color is hardly noticeable. It spreads down across John’s stomach and even trickles to his chest. It prickles wherever it touches John’s skin, and he feels feverish and his stomach churns. 

John’s head is turned into the pillow, but Sherlock can still see the tight compression of his face. John makes a beautiful sound in that same moment. Like an orchestra of pained relief and pure abasement. Sherlock stores it away in his mind between the sounds John makes when he climaxes and the strangled screams when he’s in pain. 

And when he’s sure that he’s sufficiently memorized all of the new lines in John’s miserable face, Sherlock climaxes. He nearly jackknifes with the force of it, the potent sensation of John’s misery and vulnerability intensifying everything. 

Sherlock nearly tilts too far forward, but he catches himself at the last second. When he’s done shuddering, he pulls himself out of John’s body. 

John barely makes a sound in response. With fingers clumsy from release, Sherlock removes the strap from the bound foot, and pulls John into a sitting position.

John hisses then, from his tensed arms being moved from their numbed position and because his urine now moves down his lap to settle under his thighs. 

Sherlock carefully unlocks the handcuffs, gently pulling John’s arms forward even while the man winces in pain. He rubs at the knotted shoulders, coaxing the blood to flow back. Eventually, John relaxes under his ministrations, staring at the bed the entire time. 

John rolls his shoulders back when Sherlock’s done, and thinks that a warm shower will cure any lingering stiffness. Sherlock is always thorough when it comes to taking care of his things. 

Despite the increasing chill around his groin and the tackiness under his thighs, John’s having a difficult time finding the will to move. He breaks the silence by saying, “I’m surprised you didn’t lay down plastic sheeting beforehand.” 

Sherlock blinks in surprise, clearly not expecting those to be John’s first words. He responds with, “…I hadn’t planned very far ahead.”

John turns his head to him, and it’s his turn to look mildly shocked. “You? _You_ didn’t plan ahead?”

Sherlock shrugs, “I only thought to do this when I handed you the first water glass. It was too spontaneous for premeditated measures.”

John’s honestly not sure what to say to that. Sherlock’s a slave to sensation, but he also never does anything without considering the best course of action first. To have Sherlock admit to losing himself in the throes of his twisted lust is a bit…surprising. 

So because he can’t think of anything else to say John states rather numbly, “You’re cleaning the sheets then. Since this is technically your mess.” 

John waits with half held breath to see if Sherlock will roll his eyes or make John sleep in his own filth. Instead, Sherlock’s eyes widen before he chuckles in astonishment. He presses a kiss against John’s shoulder, and John is very proud of himself for not flinching away. 

“Go on and take your shower, I’ll have it changed by the time I join you.” Because of course Sherlock knows that John’s going to take nearly twice as long in an attempt to scrub his mind as thoroughly as his body. 

Even Sherlock can’t hide the grimace of disgust as John’s shifting causes moist sounds. John has to peel the sheets away from his skin, and he wonders just how many bedclothes he’s ruined with his bodily fluids. He stands slowly, trying not to wince too much. He doesn’t feel like indulging Sherlock right now.

Sherlock hums thoughtfully as he plucks at the soaked fabric and says, “Perhaps a plastic mattress would be a good investment. I should have thought of that sooner. It would have prevented all of the effort of replacing those beds that were stained with your blood.”

John doesn’t stop walking towards the bathroom.


	2. Sounding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit for this prompt goes to zello, who commented on the last chapter that they would enjoy seeing John being sounded. I enthusiastically agreed.

It’s always strange to John when they don’t use restraints. There’s the underlying implication that he won’t strangle Sherlock in the middle of it. Which, for reasons too tangled for him to unravel, he knows is true. 

The range of motion is certainly an enjoyable change. Even if he’s not taking advantage of it now. 

John’s hands clench tightly around the sheets, twisting them around his grip instead of contorting his upper body into a spiral. He wants to remain absolutely still for what’s about to happen. 

Sherlock dribbles more lube onto John’s urethra, and the nasty sensation is tempered by a quick stroke to his dick. 

The slippery feeling of Sherlock’s gloved hands amplifies his sensitivity. He knows they’re more for sanitation than pleasure, but John always takes his small upsides when he’s able to find them. He’s also grateful that Sherlock has actually erred on the side of common-sense-safety. 

He’d personally watched as Sherlock had sterilized all of the sounds and laid them out on a clean cloth. Sherlock takes a lot of liberties with John’s physical and mental well-being; apparently possible infection is where he draws the line. 

John’s distantly appreciative that Sherlock even bothered to warn him of what he’d planned for today. He’d even been given the option of having his hands tied or unbound. 

While John’s pleased that he at least has the option to move, it’s wasted on the fact that he’s terrified to so much as shift his hips. 

Sherlock picks the smallest of the metal rods from the assortment, while John holds back hysterical giggling at the fact that there’s a size comparison in metal sticks being shoved down his dick. 

Words spill out of John before he can stop them, “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” 

A smile curls over Sherlock’s lips as he replies, “Rest assured that I do, and trust that you don’t wish to know the reason.” 

John presses his lips into lines. Sherlock holds his prick steady with one hand, and carefully lines up the rod with the other. 

A thousand ideas for distraction scramble for supremacy in John’s brain, but the tip of the sound presses onto his impossibly small opening, and he has just enough time to steal a breath. 

He can feel the give of his delicate flesh around the unyielding metal. It’s less of a pain, and more like an ache. Similar to a muscle being slowly stretched beyond what it’s used to. Sherlock stops, giving him time to adjust every few centimeters. 

The slow glide down isn’t just starting at his cock, but it’s also burning down his spine and up through his veins. Sherlock pulls his hand away from John’s dick and pushes down on John’s hip to ensure his stillness. The digits feel as hot as brands against John’s feverish skin. 

There are noises spilling from John’s throat. Nonsense babblings and guttural half-formed gargles. He doesn’t know how mere sheets and a shaking grip are keeping him from flying off of this mattress. 

Sherlock stops after what feels like a small eternity. Chest shuddering with inhales, John’s sweat rolls down across his temples and along his clenched eyes.

“Look, John, look,” Sherlock reverently encourages. 

John’s eyes manage to open. He doesn’t want to see, but he’s in the uniquely vulnerable position of having his genitals speared like a skewered piece of meat. Best not to encourage Sherlock towards more malicious ideas. 

He lifts his upper body to get a better view, and oh _God_ , moving is a terrible thing. Sucking in air through his teeth, John focuses on his dick, wanting to get this over with so he can pass out already. 

He sees his member, full and pumping with blood, the dark color complimenting the metallic dot on the end of it. John remembers how much Sherlock had held in his hands, how long the thing had been before he’d began pushing it into him. 

Panic wells up sharp and acrid in his throat, and he does his best to swallow it back down in a hot lump. 

His eyes close and his head falls back, unable to look at the tiny peek of metal any longer. Sherlock is apparently satisfied, as he says nothing. 

Instead, he twists the metal around. Going clockwise at first, then slowly spinning it the other way. 

John makes a sound like he’s being tenderly eviscerated. Sherlock is so enraptured by that noise he compels John to do it again by twisting the sound in tiny circles and random stop-start motions. 

He watches John’s face contort into entirely new expressions instead of watching his own fingers. 

He stops twisting to press, ever so lightly, against the top of it. John actually shouts then. It rings off of the walls and vibrates down into Sherlock’s marrow, where it sings there.

He pulls it slightly upward, and watches John’s feet kick out. Then Sherlock slides it back down, relishing the tortured moans. 

It’s as if he’s found a way to turn John into an instrument, without literally sliding a bow over his heart strings and vocal chords. Each shift and glide of the rod is a new tone to be struck, a new note ready to ring into existence. 

Sherlock finds it surreally beautiful and, as he shifts in his trousers, more than a little arousing. He can ignore the burn of his own desires for now, as the gargling sounds John is making are far more enthralling than an orgasm. 

The gloved fingers of his free hand itch for something to do, so he trails it along the fine hairs of John’s thigh. He contemplates burying them inside of John. The lubricant is within easy reach, and the added stimulation would be fascinating to witness. 

He stores it as an activity for later. He wants to see if John can come from the sensation of being stretched and filled in such an intimate place first. It swells Sherlock’s heart to think that he has now accessed a part of John Watson that absolutely no one else was privy to. 

Sherlock stops pressing on the sound, which gives John a few precious seconds to catch his breath. It abruptly leaves his lungs when Sherlock begins to pull the thing out of him. 

Sherlock’s just as slow at removing it as he was at placing it inside of him, which makes it all the more agonizingly pleasurable. It feels like coming intensely mixed with the horrific sensation of tugging in unknown places. John’s hands spasm into fists, shaking so much that he can practically feel his metacarpals clacking together. 

Sherlock has to press harder against John’s hip to keep him still. When he still feels him buck under his hand like an unbroken stallion, he pulls back and releases the sound. 

It sticks halfway out, twitching with the rate of John’s pulse. John glances at it, and he makes a pleading sound. 

“If you can’t hold still, I’ll tie your hands to the bed and leave you here,” Sherlock says in the same tone that asks John to pass the sugar.

John’s heart drops down to his toes. Slowly, his hands let go of the sheets to lie flat at his side. His jaw aches when he parts his lips to heave in a steadying breath. 

Sherlock pats his hip in satisfaction, right over where his initials are burned into John’s skin. He goes back to pulling the rest of the metal out, watching John’s skin shiver in restraint. 

When the sound is lying beside the rest, a pulse of heat washes through Sherlock’s groin at the sight of John’s tiny hole twitching around nothing. Sherlock can’t resist giving his own cock a quick squeeze before going back to his array of tools. 

The next one he selects is only slightly larger than the last. When he presses it in with no warning, John’s wide eyes and stuttering breath say that the difference is significant. The glide down is much quicker this time, even with Sherlock’s unchanging caution.

John’s throat continues to produce new whines and clicks, and Sherlock stores them all away in his mind palace like precious jewels. Soon there’s a stutter to John’s breathing that is intimately familiar to him. 

John’s back to clawing at the sheets. The prickles along his skin and in his crotch turn into more intent waves of pleasure. His mind goes white with primal panic over what’s going to happen when he comes. 

As much as he wants to plead to Sherlock to take it out, he keeps the words behind his teeth. John refuses to beg every time. He’ll permit himself a few slips, he’s allowed that at least. For now he’ll keep what he can until it’s pried away from his fingers. 

Sherlock tilts his head at John, tapping lightly on the top of his dick. He smiles in understanding at the desperate furrow of John’s brow. Sherlock decides he won’t try to push for John’s pleads, not this time. John’s begging may be their modus operandi, but letting John have these little victories means it is all the more devastating when he rips them away at a later date. 

When Sherlock twists the metal, John can feel his testicles draw up tight against his body. His hips don’t thrust, but twitch spasmodically. His toes curl when he feels it press down again, and John could swear to whatever God he’s given up on that he can feel the bottom of it _hit_ the base of his dick. 

The thought of the metal reaching so far down, touching him in a place never meant to be stroked, sends John careening over the edge. 

He screams when he comes. The onslaught of his orgasm has no cathartic release. It stays in his prick, where it builds upon itself. The muscles clench around the metal, intensifying the sensation until all of his nerves are located in the soft tissue and the unyielding stick. 

It feels like he’s having a second orgasm, from the way it reverberates back to him. His body is just one endless tremor and ceaseless clenching, vibrating up through his body and resounding through his bones.

Sherlock watches his face in rapt attention, absently rubbing his hand over John’s shaking flesh. Slowly, awareness returns to those hazy blue eyes.

Sherlock pulls the sound out one painstaking centimeter at a time. John’s almost sobbing from oversensitivity, and the sound curls deliciously through Sherlock’s veins. When it’s finally out of him, John groans in relief like he’s been pulled back from death.

Sherlock thinks that’s a delightful prospect, to be both salvation and damnation in one man.

The sound is almost dripping in lubricant and semen, and Sherlock fights the impulse to lick it clean. The habit of exploring every area of John with his tongue apparently doesn’t stop with the visible. The undeniable truth that curbs this strong compulsion is that the lube will taste revolting. 

He sets the whole kit on the ground, snapping off his gloves and tossing them somewhere. He’ll clean and sterilize the lot of it later. 

He climbs on top of John, who is still overcome with heavy lassitude. Sherlock runs his hands up John’s shivering rib cage, as reverently as one would caress a living Michelangelo sculpture. 

_I saw the angel in the marble and carved until I set him free_ , the quote floats unbidden from his mind palace. While John is a masterpiece waiting to be brought to life with the right pressure, Sherlock would never equate him with an angel. A symbolic representation of purity, of unattainable perfection, and unblemished righteousness, John certainly is not.

John is good, and human. He is a short temper, mixed with strong principles, steady hands in the face of fear, and strong black tea with a splash of milk. 

And that is why it is so beautiful to see John break. 

Sherlock kisses John’s lax mouth, rubbing his tongue along John’s teeth to see if he chipped anything while holding back his begging. When nothing seems to need replacing, Sherlock spends a few leisurely minutes kissing John back into cohesiveness. 

Sherlock’s trousers are still uncomfortably pinched around his crotch, but he continues to ignore it. He’s enjoying replaying John’s screams and the sight of his quaking body enough for it to occupy his baser urges. Compared to that music, an orgasm would be a paltry conclusion to this spectacular concerto. 

Sherlock pays attention to John’s slowing heart rate and evening breathing, to be sure he comprehends everything when Sherlock says, “Perhaps next time we’ll use the ridged one.” 

The shiver that goes through John’s body is far colder than pleasure.


	3. Painplay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally this was going to be titled as "stress bondage" but the content got away from me.

“It’s a shame you can’t see yourself,” Sherlock says as he circles John, “you’re remarkable like this. It’s unfortunate that a camera wouldn’t capture everything organically, and even I would find a room filled with mirrors gaudy.”

John remains silent in the middle of their bedroom. He dryly wonders if that’s all he is to Sherlock sometimes, a literal captive audience. 

Sherlock kneels down, watching John struggle to remain still. The gag is as firm as a bridle’s bit, but made of yielding plastic to avoid any chipped teeth. Ropes are knotted through the holes at either end, and the taut cords encircle John’s ankles with expertly tied knots. 

The whole thing keeps John’s back arched into an almost perfect bow. His arms are bound together and rest against the dip above his coccyx. John is rendered immobile and silent by his own pliability. 

Sherlock runs his hand along John’s chest, which is damp with sweat and shuddering. He presses into a nipple with his fingernail, and John quivers like a plucked string. He does it a few more times to watch John grapple with the instinct to move. Rapid and harsh breaths escape around John’s gag when Sherlock pinches a nub between his fingers and twists it. 

John’s head tries to thrash, but the ropes pull even tighter to lock him in place. Sherlock grabs the other nipple and pull it as well, forcing John to strain forward. His feet lift up from the ground with the effort, and all of his weight is now centered on his battered knees and abused nipples. The gag bites into the sides of his mouth from the pull of gravity on his legs. He makes a sound that is too strangled to be a scream. 

Sherlock chuckles at the sight of John’s restrained tears. He lets go, watching John rock back down. There’s a spastic twitching in John’s abdominal muscles that tells him John badly wants to curl inwards in an instinct of feeble protection. 

“It’s akin to being sacrificed to me,” Sherlock muses aloud, “the way you look right now.” 

A tribute for him to consume at his leisure. The thought compels him to rubs his hands along John’s ribs with soothing affection. 

“How are you feeling?” Sherlock idly asks. John manages to huff a noise that sounds like bewildered incredulity. 

“No, I don’t suppose you’re very comfortable,” Sherlock agrees, “I thought it best to inquire before we move onto something more strenuous.” 

John’s eyes widen, and it’s clear that he’s forgotten he can’t shake his head when the ropes tighten again. 

“Hush,” Sherlock teases, “it’s not going to be damaging. Especially not compared to what you’re used to. It’s only going to be exceedingly painful.” 

John’s eyes clench shut. Sherlock tenderly wipes away a stray tear with his thumb. 

He stands, moving towards their closet. A collection of his toys are stored neatly away. Sherlock pulls the riding crop off of its hook. He tests the give by bending it slightly, but he already knows the tensile strength down to every leather wrapping. He swishes it through the air, where the slight whistle makes John flinch. 

John can only see from his peripheral, but Sherlock loves to put on a show. It builds the anticipation equally, until both of them can’t take waiting for the strike of leather against skin. 

Sherlock walks back, trailing the crop against the front of John’s chest. John’s nails dig into his palms in a futile attempt to calm himself. The slight pain still doesn’t stop his panicked breathing.

Sherlock barely raps the flap of the leather against John’s sternum, but his whole body twitches like he’s touched a live wire. Sherlock smirks, watching John’s tongue flutter underneath the gag. A trail of drool escapes the side of his mouth, and John flushes red with embarrassment.

Sherlock relaxes his hand so the crop rests against his leg. The relief in John is evident from the curve of his shoulders and the sudden laxness of his mouth. 

Then the crop sings through the air, striking John directly across his nipple. John rocks from the force of his own jolt. He chokes around the bit as it slides further into his mouth. He can barely sputter around the plastic. Every twitch of muscle pulls his body tighter and tighter against itself.

The next blow lands across his straining ribcage. Sherlock continues whacking John with the crop in rapid strikes. The slaps echo like gunshots. John has no respite until his chest feels raw. While his sternum blazes, Sherlock trails the crop down to his groin.

John’s breathing freezes in his throat when he feels the leather against his soft cock. Sherlock moves the flesh around with his crop, stroking underneath the sack and lifting the tip. Slowly it fills with blood, a cross-wired response to imminent danger and inhibited adrenaline. 

It’s maddening that John can feel the leather across his prick while he’s unable to see it. With his head forced back he’s as good as blindfolded. He can’t focus in horrid fascination, nor can he anticipate what’s coming. He can only stare at the patterns on the ceiling while his body shakes with strain. 

When his cock is close to half hard, the leather disappears. John’s body tenses so strenuously that he feels like he’ll snap in two. 

They’re both suspended in a vast space of expectation for so long that John could scream. 

The whistle of the crop precedes a stinging bite on the inside of his thigh. It dashes to the other side, across his hips, his taut stomach, before striking across the patch of skin where his groin met his leg. The sharp bites spread their small infernos across his skin, compiling to the steady burn of his chest. 

One particularly vicious strike lands underneath his sac. 

John howls. 

He forgets himself and convulses so hard he chokes on the bit. He hears Sherlock chuckle above his own pathetic cries. There’s a moment when John hates him so intensely that it briefly chases away the pain and humiliation. 

Sherlock must be able to see that, because his laughter deepens. 

“It’s alright John, you only have to endure it for a little longer,” Sherlock reassures him before striking anew. 

Soon, the strain on his body is too much for John to bear. He feels like he can’t breathe, that he’ll soon pass out from exhaustion in a crumpled heap. 

He’s so far gone that he’s barely aware of the fact that the hits have stopped. Long fingers trace the red stripes, and John jolts from the touch. Sherlock admires his work. 

His hand covers one of the welts, reveling in the radiating heat from friction and broken vessels. John will certainly bruise, and Sherlock will delight in each new display of color and pattern that unfolds. 

He encircles John’s half erect cock, looking into blearily unfocused blue eyes as he asks, “Would you like to come now? Or would you prefer if I untie you, and fuck you into oblivion on the bed?”

From the way the words turn into a low purr at the end, John knows which one Sherlock clearly prefers. He considers mumbling around the gag to beg to come now, just to spite him. But his chest is quaking with the effort to remain bent backwards. The thought of enduring even a few minutes more is too much.

Plus, he knows Sherlock would draw it out in retribution. 

So he garbles out a few words that sound like an affirmative, hoping that Sherlock doesn’t pretend to misunderstand. 

Sherlock makes a satisfied sound, “I’m glad. Hold on for one moment.” 

He undoes the knots until the rope lies loose, slowly unwinding it from John’s ankle. When John feels the pressure ease up on his mouth, he doesn’t immediately begin to straighten. He’s too afraid that he’s stuck like this, with his back aching and his chest wrenched forward. 

Sherlock gently pulls the gag away from John’s mouth. John licks his lips and widens his mouth to crack his jaw. 

With all the care of handling delicate china, Sherlock coaxes John into lying on the floor, where it’s easier for him to adjust John’s legs. John hisses at the pins and needles traveling up his back. Yet he almost cries with the relief of straightening his spine, even with his arms pressing behind him. 

“I’m tempted to take you like this,” Sherlock says, rubbing John’s thighs to encourage circulation, “but I don’t want the rug burn to cover your crop marks.”

He grips underneath John’s shoulders, hauling him upward. John manages at the last second to get his feet to work underneath him to support himself. Walking seems a bit out of the question. 

It’s a short distance to the bed and Sherlock practically tosses John face first onto the sheets. John takes in great gulps of air, feeling every mark rub against the bedding, and doesn’t pay much attention to Sherlock’s actions until there’s a slick finger pressing inside of him. 

The preparation John receives is quick and perfunctory. Two fingers have barely stretched him open before they’re being replaced by the flared head of Sherlock’s dick. 

Sherlock’s lubricated himself thoroughly, and he’s gradually pressing in, but it still feels like John is being split down the middle. 

Roughness is on tonight’s agenda, and Sherlock has plans to _ruin_ him. 

Eventually Sherlock’s hips rest flush against John’s buttocks. He grinds inside, relishing in the tight heat. He has a wonderful view of John’s damp back, twitching from the return of blood flow. He rubs a hand down to feel the muscles jump, ending at his hip to curl his fingers around John’s pelvic bone. 

It’s the proper grip that he needs before he starts thrusting without warning. 

John clenches the pillow, burrowing his head and muffling his screams into the soft stuffing. Sherlock growls above him at the sound, snapping his hips in a harsher rhythm. 

This is an act of sexual aggression. There is no undercurrent of tenderness in the drag of John’s wounds across the thread count, in the dig of Sherlock’s fingers at the dip of his hip, or the way Sherlock is laying a claim to him through his stiff cock and the deep bites to his shoulder and nape. 

What little arousal John had before is swiftly returning. It’s a combination of the weight of Sherlock against his back that settles even more firmly when his hands move up to pin John’s down as hard as he can, his legs immobilized under Sherlock’s own, and the rhythmic grinding of his genitals and nipples against the bed with every thrust. 

John takes his pleasure from the brutal possessiveness, and he doesn’t have the coherency to be terrified about that. 

Sherlock huffs against his nape, biting at every patch of skin he can see. The slap of his hips has lost any constructed tempo, dissolving into a primal urge to fuck. 

John continues to wring out helpless moans of pleasure and pain, trying to meet thrust for thrust with the little leverage available to him. 

This spurs Sherlock to drive into him more deeply. Sherlock lets go of any plan of bringing John to desperate and mewling need. His focus is now to find his completion in John’s perfectly ravaged body. 

Sherlock’s grip on John’s wrists tightens until the small bones grind against each other. The snap of his hips keep the staccato rhythm of a terrified heartbeat. Sherlock pulls the skin of John’s shoulder and neck between his teeth until it’s as mottled as the skin on his chest. Besides the slap of flesh on top of flesh, the sounds coming from the both of them are a series of grunts and growls that sound more like beasts in rut than anything humanoid. 

The sheets catch against the sweat of John’s body, just as cloying as the lover on top of him. It drags along his cock, giving delicious sparks of friction that do enough to tease him without sending him over the edge. The driving of Sherlock’s cock into his body is just as fleeting. 

Reeling from momentary pleasure and the rush of endorphins from his beating, John growls so ferociously in frustration that Sherlock pauses in fucking him. 

John attempts to seize the opportunity, wrenching a wrist free and reaching underneath his body to try and give himself a quick tug. 

Sherlock releases his own snarl, and presses _hard_ on John’s scarred shoulder. 

The pain is such a searing demand that John’s hand stops immediately. It flings out to clench at the bedsheets. He tries to remember that he is not being shot again.

Sherlock is satisfied that this has worked as an effective deterrent. It’s almost a shame he can’t use it every time John does something annoying.

“You were doing so well too,” Sherlock snidely says, and even he can hear the way his voice has been pushed down to make room for something more carnal. 

He grinds his palm down on John’s scar, relishing the new ways John can sound agonized while being split open on his dick. 

“Since you were so beautiful while taking my crop, I’ll still let you come,” Sherlock rolls his hips into John’s body, keeping pressure on the shoulder, “but only while you’re in pain.” 

This time Sherlock places all of his weight on the hand cupping John’s bullet wound to raise himself. The other stays on the bed to be sure he doesn’t slip. This way Sherlock gets to see John’s eyes, unblinking in agony, along with the rigid set of his back. 

It’s such a delight to hear the way John chokes on air from being simultaneously fucked and tortured. 

He’d been on the brink before John had tried to foolishly relieve himself, so it doesn’t take much before Sherlock is back at the edge. It doesn’t help matters that John is undulating onto his cock and away from his hand. 

Sherlock curls his fingers around the shiny and ridged skin of John’s scar, and digs his nails in as hard as he can. All for the petty pleasure of watching John buck back against him.

It’s John clenching around him in the throes of torment that gently pushes Sherlock into his climax. 

It sparks behind his eyes, marking a fiery path through his veins. His hand slips from John’s shoulder, and he lands gracelessly on top of John’s back. 

John is close to sobbing underneath him, but is holding back the worst of his cries behind his wired-shut jaw. The clench of his body encourages Sherlock’s aftershocks until he’s almost boneless. He places a kiss so gentle it could poison honey on top of John’s agitated scar. 

“Remember what I said John,” he murmurs against it, listening to John’s shuddering breathing, “only while you’re in pain.”

He reaches a hand underneath John’s hip, gripping John’s half-softened cock. 

It doesn’t take long for John’s erection to harden. Even with Sherlock’s dry hand, John is leaking enough precome for it not to matter. The slick slide provides the friction the sheets couldn’t. With a few firm strokes, John is back on the brink. 

John’s overtaxed body is shuddering. He’s reeling from the rush of endorphins; the release from the severe pain he’s been put through over and over again this night. 

He’s squirming underneath Sherlock’s draped body. He’s so intent on the upcoming orgasm that he doesn’t feel Sherlock breathing over the destroyed skin of his scar. 

Sherlock’s hand gently rubs the crown of John’s dick, which Sherlock has learned is the easiest way to get John as close to orgasm as quickly as possible. John feels his balls draw up against his body. He thrusts mindlessly into Sherlock’s grip, which shifts Sherlock’s weight until he’s pressing down in a way that makes John’s breath stutter more from arousal than compressed lungs.

He’s so close that he couldn’t stop from climaxing if someone ordered him to. 

Just as Sherlock feels the pulse of John’s dick flutter in a familiar way, he bites down on the ragged remains of scar tissue. 

Sherlock can feel every muscle stiffen underneath him, and how the pulse in John’s skin jumps beneath his teeth. He grinds harder.

A cataclysmic shockwave tears through John’s body. Everything is being centered in the points of his shoulder and his groin. Two giant starbursts of sensation, until John understands what a supernova feels like before it destroys itself.

Even though John is too overwrought to scream, he can still feel the force of it vibrate through every sinew and bone. He does eventually hear his own sobs and Sherlock crooning softly in his ear. These are sounds that often accompany each other, and John grapples for the comfort in their familiarity. 

His arm involuntarily twitches, and John winces at the taut skin being pulled ever tighter. He tries to move it to lay at his side, but his whole shoulder flares up in harsh reprimand. John wonders in a daze of sweat soaked skin and delirious pain summa pleasure, if he will ever have use of this arm again. 

He feverishly thanks whatever luck that hasn’t abandoned him yet that he’s ambidextrous. 

John’s being shifted gently onto his back. He does cry out in protest at that, unable to help himself. His arm prickles with fire, with his back and shoulders strained into stiff cords of muscle. Glancing down, John can see the slowly blooming purple spots from the riding crop along his torso. Combined with Sherlock’s tight grip, bite marks, and whatever in God’s name has been done to his shoulder, he’s going to be quite the picture in a few hours. 

Sherlock gently pats the side of John’s face to get his bleary attention, “Not to worry John, I’ll be back with the needed remedies. I’ve heard aftercare is important for this type of thing.”

John has no response that isn’t hysterical laughter, so he goes back to staring at the ceiling when he hears Sherlock leave. He can feel the semen sticking to his stomach and leaking out of his arse. Alone with his aches and pains, John ponders on his present picture. 

He has a slightly surreal experience, where he can see the tussle of his tacky hair, the redness of his flush mixing with the growing purple of his bruises, and his limp cock crusting over with dried come. 

What strikes him the most is not how used he feels, or the decorations of teeth and whip marks across his body. It’s how satisfied he looks. 

It takes the rest of John’s flayed resolve to hold back his bile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's an incredibly nsfw picture that inspired me for this chapter that also helps provide some context. Hopefully I conveyed it well enough, but contortion-ism via ropes is hard to describe. 
> 
> http://prettyarbitrary.tumblr.com/post/48950327352/whimper


End file.
